Masquerade
by WynterVivaldi
Summary: A drabble oneshot to get inside Erik's mind before the Masquerade. E/C, slight R/C if you squint hard, but mostly E/C from Erik's POV. Written in third person for practice to get into Erik's multicolored vivid multifaceted mind.


Hi guys! I'm still writing Incomplete, but I thought I would share this quickie with you that I wrote much earlier, a drabble from Erik's POV but written in third person style. It sort of details a bit of the sequence before Masquerade, the deleted No One Would Listen sequence, and a bit more. Yes, my Erik is a beautiful stalkerish pretty boy. xD And we can all tell how much he loves Christine. I think I probably would revise this, this was a practice for me to get inside his head l0l, I still failed anyways. xD

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Christine. The name of the devil and the name of the angel. Could he, such a twisted, sick being ever hoped to obtain her? Staring into the glassy depths of the waters that have claimed many lives by his doing, he rose slowly to get ready for the Bal Masque. It was tomorrow, or was it tonight? He could not really tell from the darkness that was the underground cavern. A fair rose would spring to life that night, and he hoped to dance with her. Yet, the custom was for them to wear white or gold or blue, and he wore the colors of garish Red, Red Death, like the stories of Poe. Stalking through the halls with the visage of Death's head upon him. Everyone falling to his feet dead and reverent, a morbid fantasy of his dark kingdom that his Phantom aide bestows to him. Swirl of gown, ace of hearts, face of clown. All the delight that would go on up there in monochromatic white and black and blue, and he would stand out like a sore thumb. And there was Christine too… From the secret visits he had been paying to her and her dressing room, he gathered that she was to be dressed in a more feminine version of his outfit, a pale pink gown the color of macaroons and the dying sun at the end of each day. Much like his bride and the queen to his kingdom of music, he mused. And who was that fop to be but his priest as he heard rumors of him being dressed in a soldier's uniform.

_Green and black, _

_Queen and priest…_

He picked up a red rose that lay around his lair, tied with a black ribbon. His customary present to Christine. Thinking of how she continually reached out to him…he choked back his emotions in his wandering around his home. Giry had been good in taking his instruction for Christine to wear that pink dress. Although the girl had not been without reservation, she still eventually consented. At first, she had objected violently, saying that it would be out of order to the rest of the ball. But she kept muttering about the lovely, lovely lace in the dress, the way the dress gathered plainly in the back and fanned out like a phoenix, a glorious bird rising from the ashes and the flames. She would be his phoenix, his Venus, he imagined, shooting a glance to the Louis-Philippe room where the phoenix bed rested. He could still remember her rising from the bed as he had always imagined, pretending to turn back to his music and be absorbed in it. And then her hands had been on his face, ripping off his mask, ripping off his shield and protection from this cruel world…What was this woman of the light? What was the light? The light was nothing but a lie, it had been unkind to him. He no longer believed in the kindness of the world, the kindness of anything and everything. And yet he longed for the gentle lamb…

Christine, Christine.

The name of the devil and the name of the angel. Which was she? A kind soul to bring him out to the light? Or did she want to expose him for the monster that he was?

He picked up a pencil and flipped the sheets of his drawing easel. Already he could picture the picture he had begun on in his mind. Christine in her dress, her powdered pink dress, and he would be dancing with her. The striking toning he placed of the gold, black, white and blue people, a stark contrast to his and Christine's clothes. They were faded into the background. And slowly, he began to draw in others. Carlotta, in a flamboyant costume. Piangi, that oversized balloon. Firmin and Andre, those two bumbling idiots who thought they ran the theatre. And last, Raoul, that milksop of a boy. All his loyal subjects, staring enviously at the King and the Queen. His little reign over the Populaire would never end!

He knocked on the mask he had fashioned for the ball, a mask that covered both sides of his face, almost a full mask save for the space he had left for the mouth. The eye holes had been lined in kohl already, to give his eyes a more sunken in look a la Red Death. Picking up his book of sketches, he put the final touches to the mask in paint, heading up to pay Christine a surprise visit before the ball.

xXx

Strange, she was not in her dressing room. The place was empty and a chill rushed through the room like the coffins in their graves, save for the empty rattling of the candlesticks as the gust of wind, the draft from the mirror extinguished them. Where could she be? Her costume was hung behind the dressing screen, and he could barely make out a trinket on the table…a ring? Had that insufferable boy proposed to her? Never mind that, he would claim her back as his tonight, this very night. He could pretend to be surprised and hurt, oh yes he would. And she would come running back to him. He wondered how much good this would do to her, would she see him as a lover, or a father or a monster? Was playing the guilt card really the best way out for him? He growled to himself, wanting her all the more. Just then, there was a click to the dressing room door, and in walked Christine and Meg, giggling. Madame Giry soon came in after, shooing Meg out. Erik turned to leave, as Christine looked into the mirror and gave a small gasp.

"Mon ange!"

He could definitely hear the happiness in her voice, the way she scrabbled at the mirror to trip the catch to see him. Flipping the switch, he walked out to join the merry party, still in his dress clothes. Madame Giry raked her gaze over his mode of dress.

"Are you not going to get changed? You will be late."

"I intend to be fashionably late, Madame. After all, a King is never late, his subjects are just early."

Madame Giry's lips twitched slightly, as Christine buried her face into Erik's clothes, happily holding him close. Ever the child that she was, she clung to him, before realizing that she must get dressed. Bidding him a fond farewell and a wish to see him that night, they parted. In the long trek back to his lair, which was made easier by a few more treacherous shortcuts he took, he mused on Christine's actions, realizing the ring had been on a silver string, much like a necklace long enough to hide in her bosom. Looks like she was not really proud of that fop being her husband either. Just as his family would probably despise her being his bride, he chuckled to himself darkly.

He would certainly have a ball of a time tonight.

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Thank you for reading! If you want more, please check out my other story, Incomplete. Reviews make me happy!

/hands out black ribbon tied roses/


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